Page 293 of Branded
Fifteen
Cas
I sat on the small set of steps that led up to her door, waiting for Jules to emerge from the apartment next door.
She’d all but carried the younger woman, brown hair mussed and face creased with sleep down her stairs and up to the adjacent set that led to the apartment next door. Then had somehow kept the other woman upright as she struggled with the getting the key out and attempting to unlock the door.
Which had been the point I’d lost my ability to sit back and watch her struggle.
So, I’d taken the keys, gotten the door open, held it for her to shepherd the other woman through.
And then, though I wanted to help, wanted to carry Mary—whose name I’d only caught because Jules had had to use it quite a few times to rouse her—I hadn’t gone inside. Even though I didn’t like that Jules was struggling. Even though I knew it would be faster for me to just carry Mary into her bedroom.
Jules had asked me to back off.
I wasn’t going to make the mistake of not listening to her.
I wasn’t that guy.
Ha.
So said the guy who’d all but bullied her into her car so I could drive her home.
Well, I wasn’t going to make the mistake of not listening to her in this instance. She’d been pushed far enough and?—
Footsteps on the stairs next to me.
I glanced up, expected to watch her walk into her own place, to shut the door, to end our evening.
Certainly, I’d pushed her far enough to test the patience of even the most saintlike of saints.
But instead, she surprised the shit out of me by sinking down onto the steps next to me.
“What?” she asked after a few moments.
(Probably because I was basically staring at her like she was a bug).
“Nothing,” I said, shifting enough so that I could watch her without getting a crick in my neck. She was surprisingly little, despite the fact that she took up a lot of space in my mind, my heart. Actually, sitting next to her, towering over her even though we were sitting on the same step, reminded me how tiny she was.
And breakable.
“What?” she asked again.
And strong as hell.
And she’d been hurt because of me.
“I’m sorry that Chelsea?—”
“Don’t,” she said, reaching out and taking my hand, lacing our fingers together. Her skin wasn’t like silk there—it was a little rough, calloused on her fingers, on her palm. I liked it, though. It reminded me how capable she was, how tough and strong. “It’s over—hopefully.” A gentle smile to soften the fact that this might not be over. “And while I’d prefer not to be in the crosshairs of your ex again, I know it wasn’t really about me.”
No, it wasn’t about her.
It was about me?—
Except it was about her.
Chelsea had been infuriated when we’d gone to CeCe’s, had hated even more that I’d talked to Jules.
